


Five Times Natasha Thinks She's in Love and One Time She Knows

by pitythewise



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitythewise/pseuds/pitythewise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha might be falling in love, despite her best efforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Natasha Thinks She's in Love and One Time She Knows

**One.**

It starts with just sex. Natasha's wired after her last mission, keyed up and on edge. She hates going out with other SHIELD agents, but she doesn't want to be alone. So when Clint invites her to join them, she goes and drinks him under the table and allows herself to laugh just a little when he sings karaoke with Bill from accounting. He smiles at her like she's real and whole and alive, and Natasha feels the tension disappear from her shoulders with each passing hour.

She helps Clint stumble into his apartment, his arm draped over her shoulders, not unlike she would have helped him after a sprained ankle on a mission. But there's something different about the way he looks at her, the way he slurs out compliments and endearments, the way he teases her when she drops him on the bed and pulls off his shoes.

She looks at him as he struggles to take off his jacket, his limbs not working with his normal precision, and thinks _fuck it_.

She straddles his lap and he looks up at her in dim confusion, but then she's kissing him, her hands pushing off his jacket. She pushes him back onto the bed and forgets. Forgets protocol and who they are and what they are supposed to be to each other. Forgets that Clint is completely trashed and this isn't fair, really, to either of them. 

It happens like that for months. Sometimes, it's after missions, sometimes it's not. Sometimes, Clint is drunk and sometimes, Natasha is. Sometimes, it's on the helicarrier in Clint's quarters or in a storage closet or in the blind spots between cameras. Mostly, it was in Clint's apartment in New York or his place in San Diego or a motel room in Chicago when Clint is on a mission and Natasha is in town for no good reason but goes to see him anyway. But it's always at Clint's, never in Natasha's apartment, because if she falls into his bed with him, then she gets to leave. If it's his apartment, then he can't leave her.

And she always leaves because if she stays, if she falls asleep in his arms and wakes to the smell of him cooking breakfast--and he would too because beneath his bitter sarcasm and sharp gaze, he's a fucking gentleman--if she enjoys waking up next to him more than she enjoys the sex, then it starts to feel too much like love and Natasha Romanov does not love.

And then one night, as Natasha sits up, the sheet pooling around her hips, Clint puts a hand on her back and says, "Stay."

Natasha looks at him and suddenly she knows. He loves her, has loved her for weeks at least, months probably. He doesn't fuck her anymore, but instead, he makes loves to her and tries his best to hide it. She knows this and yet she doesn't know why she lies back down, why she lets him cover her with the blanket, why she rests her cheek over his heart. She'll leave once he falls asleep, she thinks, but she never does.

**Two.**

Natasha shows up on Clint's doorstep two days after she was allowed off base on her own recognizance. It takes her exactly twenty four hours to shrug off her quarters on the helicarrier and find a quiet apartment that is close enough to Clint's to make her feel safe but far enough to be a coincidence. She shops for groceries, plans escape routes and hiding places, buys a couch, considers leaving SHIELD twice, goes to the movies, and almost, _almost_ feels normal. It's a peculiar feeling, one that doesn't sit well in the pit of her stomach, and so she goes to Clint, whose straight-forward attitude is oddly grounding in a world full of lies.

She sees the flicker of surprise that ghosts across his features when he opens the door, but it disappears almost as soon as it comes and he moves aside to let her in.

"You hungry?" Clint asks, as he shuts the door behind him. He moves with an ease that Natasha wishes she felt, and it feels a little like trust.

"Yes." She isn't.

"You want a sandwich?"

"Sure." She doesn't.

Clint gestures towards the counter that separates the kitchen from the dining room, and Natasha sits lightly on one of the barstools. His apartment is neater than she expected--military trained, she remembers--and it barely looks lived in. There's no dining table, but Clint--the everlasting bachelor--doesn't need one, she supposes. She can hear the television from the living room, and if she leans over, she can see a beer and his bow on the coffee table.

"Hot date?" she smirks.

"You know it," Clint replies easily. Natasha wonders when the last time he went on a date was and then quickly shakes the thought from her head.

Clint works quickly and efficiently, wielding a knife like someone who has killed with less, and places a plate with a sandwich, sliced neatly along the diagonal, in front of her. He sets down another sandwich in front of himself, digging into it hungrily, and all Natasha can see is a fistful of meat and bread. He pauses mid-chew, when she makes no move towards the sandwich, and says with his mouth full, "I thought you said you were hungry."

"I forgot that I had a big lunch," Natasha lies, and even on her worst day, she should have been able to come up with something more convincing.

Clint rolls his eyes, as if her answer is incredibly pathetic. Without prompting, he grabs the sandwich from her plate and takes a large bite before placing it down in front of her. He holds her gaze steadily, as she tries to figure out just what exactly makes him tick. She doesn't understand him, can't play him like she does other men, but most of all, she doesn't understand why he isn't scared of her, more wary of her presence, less willing to turn his back to her.

Natasha looks at him for a long moment, before picking up her sandwich and neatly taking a bite. Clint grins like he just won something and takes a long drink of his coffee before handing her the mug.

**Three.**

Natasha takes a bullet for him on a cold winter night in Budapest, and when Clint curses and drags her into a dark alleyway, she thinks stupidly that he's getting blood on her dress.

"Did you get the mark?" Natasha croaks, and she's ashamed at how pathetic her voice sounds.

"Of course, I did," Clint says, checking around the corner and then behind the dumpster and then in the windows overlooking the alley. Good for him, Natasha thinks deliriously. Clint drops to his knees beside her, pressing his hands painfully over the wound, holding her still when she tries to push him away. "I'm a fucking sniper."

"Because… Fury'll be…" Natasha starts, but she can't quite pull out the words she wants to say.

"I got him, Nat," Clint cuts her off. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm not going to die," Natasha says firmly, resolutely, her eyes boring into Clint's.

"I know."

"Say it." Natasha feels Clint's hands tighten around her side.

"You're not going to die." Clint's voice cracks on the words, but if this was the last thing she ever hears, she wants it to be Clint. "You're not going to fucking die, Nat."

**Four.**

Natasha doesn't realize that she's on a date until they're in his apartment, watching _Star Wars_ \--his idea--and drinking wine--hers. She's curled up in the corner of the couch, tucked up against the armrest, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers, her legs propped up on Clint's lap. Clint's massaging her calves almost mindlessly, as he babbles on about the movie, his glass of wine forgotten on the coffee table.

She should have realized it earlier, she thinks, when he asked her to a movie--she doesn't even remember the last time she saw a movie in theaters--or when they had dinner at an Italian restaurant that Clint had to wear a collared shirt to.

She wonders if he knows--he isn't stupid, he has to--and if he had planned this out. She wonders if he wants her to know or if he hopes she won't notice. She wonders what he wants from her--because people always want something--but Clint isn't like that, she has to remind herself. He isn't.

"Are you listening to me?"

Natasha shakes her head lazily, leaning over to place her glass of wine on the table. She lifts herself into a sitting position, placing a hand on the back of his neck as leverage to keep herself upright.

"Not even a little," she says before closing the gap for a kiss. She flicks her eyes towards the television. "I hate this movie."

"I know," he says, kissing her back. "Thanks for letting me watch it."

"Movie, dinner, wine." Natasha counts on her fingers. "This is a date, isn't it?"

"Would you ever let me take you out on a date?"

"No."

"Then it's not a date."

"No," Natasha murmurs against his lips. "Not at all."

That night, as Natasha and Clint lay in a tangle of sweat and sheets, Natasha whispers into his chest, "I've never been on a date before."

"Mmm," Clint responds, running a finger down the length of her spine. "Was it good?"

"I'll tell you in the morning."

The next morning, Natasha wakes to the smell of bacon and pancakes. She's swathed in cheap sheets that are rough against her skin, much different than her own Egyptian cotton, and when she turns her head into the pillow, she can smell the shampoo she bought Clint in San Diego when she discovered all he owned was a bar of soap.

She pads into the kitchen, wearing his shirt, and she likes the grin he suppresses when he turns to look at her, a frying pan in one hand and an apron declaring that "Archers Do It Better" covering his bare chest. He gestures towards the full coffee pot, before flipping the pancake with a flick of the wrist. She pours herself a cup of coffee, steals a piece of deliciously crisp bacon, and watches him, in a pair of sweats and an apron, deftly turn the bacon with one hand and slide the pancake onto a plate with his other.

She steps into his space as he pours another dollop of pancake batter into the pan, and he looks down at her in surprise as she stands on her toes and plants a kiss on his lips.

"It was a good one," she says simply, and graciously ignores the stupid smile on his face as she walks away.

**Five.**

Clint spends three days in medical before they agree to release him under strict orders to stay in bed, but Clint wasn't made to be cooped up, feels so trapped in his own skin that he nearly begs Coulson to let him go. Natasha promises to watch him, and after a long argument with Coulson, they take a jet to New York and then a cab to Coney Island, where Clint proceeds to win her every stuffed animal they have.

"If you tear your stiches, I'm not taking you back to medical," Natasha warns, as Clint throws a dart at a series of brightly colored balloons.

"I'm throwing darts, not running a marathon," Clint says, accepting a giant monkey as his prize and letting it sit on his shoulders like a small child.

Natasha had given away most of the prizes Clint had won--a blue, inflated alien really didn't fit in with the décor of her apartment--but she had claimed a small stuffed teddy bear as her own. She's hyper aware of Clint--the way he favors his right leg, the way he holds his left arm close to his chest so it won't be bumped by passersby, the way he leans on her when they wait in line--but she's enjoying her time so much that she almost forgets how very close he was to dying, until he sits down heavily on a bench, his chest heaving, and suggests they call it a day.

"But we haven't even ridden the Cyclone yet!"

Clint looks at her in surprise, as if he can't really believe that he pretended to be injury-free so convincingly, but Natasha's knowing smile as she slides onto the bench tells him otherwise.

"You're making fun of me," Clint says. "I almost died, and you're making fun of me."

Natasha kisses him unexpectedly, not even sure herself what brings her to do it. Clint's not accustomed to being publicly open about their relationship, but he takes to it like a champ, placing his hand on the back of her head to hold her in place. It feels so nice to be normal that Natasha almost thinks Coulson's lecture on following medical advice will be entirely worth it if she can only stay like this for a few more minutes.

"You want to come over?" Clint asks when Natasha pulls away. "I can't promise I'll be much fun, but I have the vodka you like and a flat screen TV."

"I was actually thinking we'd go to my apartment instead."

This was the second time today that Clint gave her a look of complete shock, and Natasha likes the way he wears it so openly on his face.

"It's closer," Natasha says by way of explanation.

"No, it's not."

"Well then, my bed's more comfortable than yours." Natasha stands and offers her hands to help Clint to his feet.

"I wouldn't know," Clint says wistfully, using her as leverage to stand up.

"If you bleed on my sheets, you're buying me new ones." Natasha looks pointedly at the bandage that is covering the stitches on his arm. "And don't even think about getting those cheap excuses for linens that you have."

Natasha heads towards the exit, as Clint calls after her, "I like those sheets! And they have bullseyes on them. I'm pretty sure I can write it off as a work-related expense!"

Later, when Clint's fast asleep on her couch, his head in her lap, his arm tucked around his stuffed monkey, Natasha runs a hand through his hair and thinks maybe she could get used to this, after all.

**+1**

"Barton's been compromised."

 _I love him_ , Natasha thinks suddenly, so suddenly that it makes her heart clench and her gut drop.

She would kill for him and beside him, would take a bullet for him. She couldn't kill him. She wouldn't. Later, Loki would ask her if this is love and she would say love is for children because she's still a goddamn professional, but suddenly she feels very small and helpless and alone.

She thinks, _I need him._

She thinks, _I can't live without him._

She thinks, _I'll save him._

She says, "Let me put you on hold."


End file.
